


Imaginary

by Aviena



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Silver Shroud - Freeform, Tickling, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:06:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5449403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviena/pseuds/Aviena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Deacon can't trust anyone enough to fall in love, but months of travelling with the SS has started to wear him down more than he was willing to admit.</p><p>He knows he can't afford to let himself get any closer, but during a particularly weak moment, that knowledge isn't enough to stop him from pleading for just this once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imaginary

Charmer really could go toe-to-toe with the best of them. Deacon couldn’t help but admire the patience and caution with which she lined up each and every shot. She could cross the wasteland almost without leaving a mark; ghost across the Commonwealth as if she was never there.  
  
It might have been easier for Deacon if that was in fact the case.   
  
“What’s wrong, Dee?”  
  
He’d just watched her save a group of settlers from super mutants, all without the brutes even realising she was there. She was impressive as hell. She was also brave, beautiful and kind –  _far_  kinder than this washed-out world deserved. Kinder than he deserved, too, and that was the whole damn problem.  
  
“Just wondering how long you’re gonna keep me around, Annie Oakley. I can’t even remember the last time I had to actually shoot something.”  
  
She laughed, and her smile lit up the wasteland just like it always did. “If I had my way, I’d keep you around forever.”  
  
There it was again. It was the way she said the words as much as it was the words themselves that conjured up that ache in Deacon’s chest, like she was sweetly drawing the air from his lungs and the blood from his veins. All he could do – all he could  _ever_  do - was trail along behind her, a pathetically grateful husk. It was like this every time. She trusted so easily, gave so easily, and Deacon couldn’t remember the last time he did either. If Deacon was younger, if he was stronger, if he was a million things other than what he was...  
  
But he wasn’t, and he couldn’t. Deacon had been burned so many times before that the scar tissue had become a god damn suit of armor.   
  
“You say that now,” he told her. His lungs expanded, his blood flowed, and it was all through sheer force of will. “Wait until I  _do_  have to shoot something. If you hear any high-pitched screaming, just remember that it’s me and not some little girl that needs rescuing.”  
  
Charmer rolled her eyes at him. “Come on Dee, you can say you like my company too. Just this once.”  
  
“There you go putting words in my mouth again, sugar.”  
  
She arched one eyebrow meaningfully, but Charmer was smiling as she set off to join the flock she rescued. They were grateful, of course, and they fell at her feet in just the same way Deacon would have – if he was younger, if he was stronger.  _If, if, if._  
  
They spent the night camped out in a shed in the settlement. Charmer slept easily, but Deacon’s sleep was troubled. The wind whistled through a gap in the roof just a little too loudly, the floor was just a little too hard, and the night air was just a little too cold. Charmer was sleeping just a little too close to him, and Deacon’s imagination was far too good. He’d never mentioned it to her, but she had a tendency to moan in her sleep.  _A lot_. By morning, Deacon was hard and hot and aching, and Charmer, with her sleepy smile, her bed-hair and her jaw-cracking yawns, was far too alluring.  
  
But then again, she always was.

They were up and moving far too soon, headed for Sanctuary. Charmer wanted to drop off some of the salvage she’d been lugging around and check up on the settlers there. She’d undoubtedly make time to see her friends there, as well. Deacon’s heart was always a little heavy whenever they approached Charmer’s old home. She’d never been able to shake loose that cloud that hung over her when she looked at the ancient buildings, and Deacon could never shake loose the fear that this time would be the time she’d tell him they needed to part ways.  
  
They reached the Red Rocket truck stop in the late afternoon. It was only a short walk up the hill and over the bridge to Sanctuary, but Charmer headed inside the truck stop just like she always did when they passed this way.  
  
“I’m tired,” she said. The words varied from visit to visit, but the message was always the same. “Let’s stay here tonight. We can head to Sanctuary in the morning.”  
  
Deacon shrugged – as he always did. “Sure. I could use a break, anyway.” It was lie, but compared to his others it was a small one.   
  
They had a ritual for these nights. Charmer would dig out an old comic from the collection she was building, and Deacon would scrounge up some Sugar Bombs and Fancy Lads from their meagre stores. They holed up on Deacon’s mattress at the back of the building, huddled together over a faded issue of  _Grognak_  or  _Manta Man_ , taking turns at reading aloud in the flickering light of the overhead lamp. Deacon wasn’t much of a fan, really, but when Charmer was reading it was like she glimpsed another world. Her voice was brighter, her smile was broader, and her eyes sparkled like some pristine, imagined ocean.  
  
That night, Charmer wanted to re-enact the Silver Shroud script they’d found in the ruins of Hubris Comics. Deacon was hesitant at first, but her enthusiasm was infectious, like a beacon banishing the evening shadows. She was the Shroud, of course. Deacon played everybody else.

“You’re bluffin’,” Deacon grunted in his best mobster voice. “Glad you think so,” he countered with a fair approximation of a woman’s sultry tones. He sent a wink in Charmer’s direction and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. He turned the mobster back on again. “Okay! Fine. I’m all in.”  
  
Charmer lifted her chin dramatically, flipping her hair back over one shoulder. “Actually… you all fold!”  
  
Deacon’s sides were hurting with the effort of keeping a straight face. “No!” he gasped girlishly. “It can’t be!”  
  
Charmer looked about to double over with laughter as well. “Oh, but it can!” She leapt to her feet, one hand on her hip, the other hoisting the silver machine gun prop she’d been so excited to unearth. She sprayed the room with imaginary bullets, clicking her tongue to mimic the sound of shells falling. Deacon shrieked in response, arms flailing wildly before going limp and falling flat on his back. He couldn’t help but chuckle now, his sunglasses askew and his head hanging off the end of the mattress.  
  
He couldn’t see her when she delivered the punchline, but he could hear the joy in her voice. “Feany Five, Death has come for you…. and I am its Shroud!” She collapsed beside him then, convulsing with giggles and tickling his vulnerable ribs. Deacon flinched away, but with nowhere to go all he could do was wrestle her off him, gasping for air and managing only breathless laughter.  
  
Finally, she stopped, and they both lay there for a moment, breathing deep in the comfortable silence. They had a ritual for this, as well. She’d gather the scattered sweets, collect her comic and retreat to her own mattress in the next room, and Deacon would spend the night chasing his own thoughts in circles.  
  
But something about tonight felt different. Maybe it was the sleepless night he’d just spent in the settlement, listening to Charmer sigh and moan in her sleep. Maybe it was the way the skin over his ribs tingled with the memory of her touch. Maybe it was the way she looked at him, caught somewhere between joy and melancholy. Either way, when Charmer went to leave, Deacon spoke up.  
  
“Hey, you don’t have to go. Stay here. We can grab some iguana bits and pretend we’re toasting s’mores or something. People used to do that, right?”  
  
Her brow furrowed slightly – not a frown, exactly, but something close to it. A sign of confusion, maybe. Uncertainty? Deacon was good at reading people, normally, but Charmer sent all his instincts haywire.  
  
“And that’s all we’re gonna do?” A small smile was starting to tug at the corners of her mouth. “You’re not gonna get fresh with me, are you, Dee?”  
  
Jesus. He wanted to. Her small smile had morphed into a broad one, now, and she arched one delicate eyebrow playfully. To any other man, that expression would have said  _push a little more, and see how far we can go_ , but all Deacon heard were warning bells. He wanted to, but he  _couldn’t_.

A few short weeks ago, he’d told her she was lucky her family was gone. It was a  _stupid_  thing to say, but it was the truth. Charmer didn’t have to live in fear that today might be the day she came home to find her home in ruins and her family in bloody pieces. She couldn’t appreciate that yet, of course. She hadn’t yet lived through an Institute attack. She hadn’t yet watched Coursers toss her friends’ corpses aside like ragdolls. She hadn’t yet had to choose between her own life and a doomed defense of the people she cared about.  
  
Grief was hard, sure. But fear was harder, and Deacon could already feel that old fear building in his chest. It was a fear he’d sworn he would  _never_  let himself feel again.   
  
He couldn’t love her. He  _couldn’t_ , or the fear would consume him.  
  
Deacon waited too long to reply. Charmer’s smile faded again, and she bit her lip. “Maybe it’s better that we don’t.” She scooted across the mattress to climb back to her feet.  
  
Deacon couldn’t help it. Call it reflex, but his hand shot out to catch Charmer’s forearm. He could feel her heartbeat through the silky skin of her wrist. She was trembling.  
  
He  _couldn’t_  love her.  
  
Deacon’s voice sounded faint even to his own ears. “Just imaginary s’mores, sugar. I promise.”  
  
There were times Deacon was sure Charmer could read his mind, and this was definitely one of them. “I don’t know…”  
  
Jesus, he was pathetic. He knew he had to stop this.  _Now_.  
  
But he couldn’t.  
  
“Please,” he whispered. Charmer stared at him, the oceans in her eyes roiling. “Just this once.”  
  
For a long moment, Charmer didn’t respond. Her pulse had quickened, and Deacon was sure that he had started trembling as well. Then, so abruptly that Deacon nearly flinched away, she scooted in close beside him.  
  
“Do you even know what a s’more is?” she asked.   
  
“Not really.” That ache in Deacon’s chest was growing, but he forced it down. It was just once.  
  
“Then let’s not do iguana bits. Grab some snack cakes – and maybe we can stuff some Sugar Bombs in the middle…”  
  
Just once.  
  
So why was he so afraid?


End file.
